


Love and Hate's Undying Flame

by yoshizora



Series: Tame the Phoenix [1]
Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Ten years ago, Jin resonated with a stolen Core Crystal. Ten years later, Brighid questions the nature of humans when she meets one woman with incredible strength.(an AU in which Brighid is a part of Torna)
Relationships: Brighid/Mòrag Ladair
Series: Tame the Phoenix [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146122
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	Love and Hate's Undying Flame

**Author's Note:**

> bonus points to anyone who can guess where the title comes from 
> 
> like many of my other fics, this is an idea that's been sitting rent-free in my head for months because i never found the energy/time to write it out until now. i don't mention it in the fic, but Jin obtained Brighid's Core Crystal just as the Gormotti War ended, presumably as her previous Driver passed away and she was somewhere out on the field where no one could recover her and take her back to the Empire.

No matter how much armory and steel plates and tempered reinforcements are piled upon a Titan, its form is still that of a living, breathing, organic being. They bleed ether, Titans— thick and viscous, like an oil. Strike deep enough and the oil erupts. Nobody in their right mind would ever do such a thing, though, not without great intent of cruelty.

Or sheer indifference.

The carrier Titan bellows, the hull of its ship breached and then some, a great wound carved into its hide. It careens and then dips low into the foggy clouds, sirens blaring and drowning out its cries. Jin braces himself with one hand clutching frayed metal sticking from the entryway they’d made for themselves. He looks to Brighid, who is standing upright, impeccably balanced in spite of the floor listing. For a moment, the Titan is flying completely sideways.

“You get the Core Crystals. I’ll take care of the soldiers,” Jin says, once the Titan rights itself and he no longer has to hold onto anything.

“I don’t think so.”

“Just go, Brighid.”

Brighid shoots him a _look_ , which Jin readily returns with his own dour glare. He’s the leader of their group in name, but only because Malos can’t lead for shit and the others are too lost to make their own decisions. Jin’s the one with the ideas, the plans, the grand monologues about humanity’s rot and the world’s imminent end. If he bothered cleaning himself up and knew how to hold a conversation that lasted more than a minute, maybe he’d even have some charisma hidden beneath that perpetual fugue state.

That’s not someone Brighid would ever admire enough to follow. She’s here because she’s damn well capable of making her own decisions for herself, with or without him.

Footsteps and shouting echo down the corridor. Those sirens continue to blare.

“Their reinforcements are already on course. Once they arrive, we won’t be able to return to the Monoceros without a hassle.” Brighid says, whips snapping by her sides. She tilts her head, annoyance now lacing her words. “Besides, Malos is insufferable when I let you overexert yourself.”

Jin is already gone, headed for the opposite side of the ship.

She considers the gossip Akhos and Obrona brought to the table the day before. They call it intel, gleefully, but everyone else knows all they do is lurk around grimy streets and threaten passerby until they hear something either interesting, entertaining, or somewhat useful. Usually the former two. Obrona considers it an art form, while Akhos brags of his persuasive skills. It was over the table that they brought their latest intel (gossip) with a grand flourish: rumors of a rising star in Mor Ardain, a protagonist come anew, burning with raw talent! The stage has been set, and the narrative overturned!

Then some other nonsense like that, punctuated with Obrona’s cackling.

They say that Mor Ardain’s strongest Driver had been bested by an ordinary swordsfighter. One without a Blade.

Preposterous.

Humans are nothing without Blades. They are wretched creatures, helpless like newborn pups but with the cunning of wolves, selfish by nature and bearing hearts filled with hatred. Malos and Jin both repeat these mantras over and over again, as if to remind themselves rather than offer words of wisdom to Brighid and the others. When she had awakened, she felt Jin’s regret. She saw his dead fish-like eyes and the unhappy twitch of his frown. Even without such a cold, awkward welcoming, she would have been able to feel how _wrong_ the entire thing was, because Jin’s heart is that of a human’s.

None of them can help being what they are. Jin’s pity for her incites anger and indignation, and Brighid thinks she may have left them altogether if it hadn’t been for what she’d learned from what remains of her journal. Entries of past lives, memories that can never be recovered, days long past that may as well have belonged to an entirely different person— who she was, before Jin awakened her, no longer exists. All that remains is familiar handwriting in a journal she doesn’t remember writing in.

Malos had bowed his head when he regretfully informed her that all those missing pages had been torn out by the Ardainian royals, but she didn’t miss the smirk that had passed across his face.

She’s shaken out of her contemplations by the loud arrival of the ship’s guards. Eight Drivers flanked by a Blade each, and… a ninth…

“It’s Lady Brighid! Subdue her!” One of them shouts. “Don’t damage her Core Crystal!”

As if they could even lay a scratch upon her! The passageway of the ship is narrow, but their numbers are too great for them to advance all at once. She strides forth, everything around her ablaze in a roaring inferno, the blades of her whips arcing like twin serpents.

_One. Two. Three._

She’s not as clean nor efficient as Jin when it comes to killing people. But she’s certainly more graceful than Malos, and she takes little pleasure in drawing out their deaths like he does. He enjoys gloating. Brighid finds that to be incredibly distasteful.

_Four. Five._

Patroka is even more gruesome, and even more brutal. If Malos is a sadist then she’s an absolute freak that he pales beside. At least Malos has some rhyme and rhythm to his methods, while Patroka acts like a mindless animal when she kills.

_Six. Seven. Eight._

Akhos condones Obrona’s… messier inclinations, though he rarely partakes himself. He’s fastidious and fussy in contrast to Patroka’s brutish ways, and disapproves of her methodology (though for the wrong reasons). Brighid would be inclined to agree, as much as she dislikes Akhos.

_Nine—_

Dull Core Crystals litter the path behind her, blood pooling beneath the bodies of their Drivers, and her whip collides with a heavy shield. The sparks are blinding, for a split second.

“Oh?”

Brighid leaps back to put some space between them, to get a better look at this human who had managed to withstand a direct attack with hardly a flinch. The rumors could be true, then? Is this person truly a mere human? How could a human…

The woman straightens up. The sword she carries is thick, but that shield— that shield is _ridiculous_ , coming up to her shoulder in height and broad enough that a person could comfortably sit crosslegged upon it. No ordinary human could possibly carry something that heavy, let alone with one hand.

Is she human?

“You’re strong,” she says with a slight smile, looking over her from her head to her boots. The uniform is unmistakably different from those she had killed, more ornamental in appearance. She sees the telltale signs of where bits of the armor had been fiddled with and modified for the sake of practicality. Despite the weight of all that armor (and the weight of that _shield_ ) the woman’s steps are noiseless and lithe as they begin to circle each other, slowly sizing each other up.

She must be _muscular_ beneath all that regalia, Brighid thinks. Something in her chest flutters with excitement. “It’s unusual to see such a decorated soldier fighting without a Blade.”

“I have no need for one.”

Her whips retract, neatly snapping back into place. “We’ll see about that. May I have the pleasure?”

“Mòrag Ladair. Well met, Lady Brighid,” she says, dripping with tension. She’s doing something with her sword. Something flashes at the cuff of her sleeve, a distinctive glow that runs up the hilt and across the length of steel, sparking with energy. Akhos and Obrona never mentioned anything like _this._

Mòrag points the sword at Brighid.

“Shall we dance?”

“I’ll broil you alive.”

Seldom is Brighid ever surprised, much less caught off guard. Yet she finds herself captivated by the sight of Mòrag _slamming_ that entire damn shield against her sword, mechanisms spinning and grinding, that energy engulfing her wrists as the shield smoothly attaches itself to the end of her sword. Only then does Brighid realize that the edges of that shield had been sharpened, effectively forming a massive axe, crackling with energy. No, not energy… ether. That’s ether. That woman is channeling ether without— _what in blazes—_

It’s swinging right at her. The shield chops right through the floor of the ship with an explosive crash where Brighid had just been standing. To her horror, she feels a quick succession of sharp stings traveling up her legs just as she leaps away— the ether, that shockwave, she didn’t get entirely away.

Her feet hit the ground, hard. Brighid hisses through clenched teeth and staggers.

“ _Azure Striker: Form the First,_ ” Mòrag is shouting, rearing back for another swing.

She’s using _Arts._

“Are you even human?!”

She leaps away again, this time further down the corridor to get out of the range of the next shockwave. Brighid feels it again nonetheless, just barely. This is… unprecedented. That ether is water elemental, that’s why it stung. But Mòrag is fighting alone without a Blade, without an Affinity Link in sight. Her Core Crystal must be hidden beneath her uniform— that must be it, there’s no other explanation.

“Humans will surpass the need for Blades! I shall be the one to forge that path,” Mòrag says, stepping through the smoke. That axe, sword-and-shield-axe, whatever it is, drags behind her with a horrid sound.

“How funny. I had a similar thought to yours— Blades won’t need to depend on humans anymore.”

This time, Brighid is able to see what she does when she readies her weapon. There are _phials_ in her sleeves, loaded with ether, which she jams into the hilt of her sword. Her belt must be loaded with them as well.

So that’s what it is. Just a technological gimmick.

And this time, Brighid is prepared. Mòrag’s attacks were undeniably powerful, even by the standards of one of the strongest Blades in Alrest, but speed is not on her side. Her weapon is quick to change forms but a hefty sword and shield can do nothing but defend against the swift strikes of Brighid’s whipswords.

—Mòrag lashes out.

Unexpectedly.

Humans are annoyingly tenacious. That’s why Torna hasn’t wiped them all out yet, even though Jin has the powers of a monster and Malos regained enough of his strength to be an actual threat. Sure, they could spend a year or two systematically killing every individual person in every village and town and city, but to wipe out a hive the head must be killed first.

The Architect must die.

Otherwise humans like this one, _Mòrag Ladair_ , are going to find some sort of insane survival drive that allows them to do things like _this_ , swinging an impossibly heavy weapon around and channeling her own ether and going toe-to-toe against the Jewel of Mor Ardain herself.

They trade blow after blow, steel glancing off steel with flashes of fire and ether. Sweat is pouring down Mòrag’s face and still she stands her ground, relentless and unwavering, breathing hard.

“You really don’t know when to give up, do you?!” Brighid’s swords collide with Mòrag’s, both of them pushing forth.

Just as she anticipated, she glimpses Mòrag bracing herself to slam the shield into her while their swords are locked.

The fight is over. It hardly takes any precision to twist aside and sweep Mòrag’s ankles out from beneath her. The weight of the shield works against her now, dragging her off balance and to ground with a painful crash. Her sword is swiftly kicked out of reach.

Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut in preparation for the final blow, but it never comes.

“… You’re interesting,” Brighid says, the tip of blade aimed for her throat. “I’ve never met a human like you before. Killing you like this would seem… wasteful.”

“Such high praise, coming from the Jewel of Mor Ardain,” she tersely replies.

“That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Then, Brighid, who are you now?”

Her steel wavers. She is… no longer under Imperial control. That’s what Jin had said, and everything in her journal (or what’s left of it) adds up. Decades, and centuries, and countless lifetimes were spent serving the Ardainian Empire. From what she’d seen, that country is hardly worth fighting for, much less saving. They’ve worked their Titan to the brink of death and Jin had shown her the scorch marks left across the Gormotti Titan, remnants of the war she’d partaken in for conquest.

All for nothing, because none of it was justified and they’re all going to die anyway.

They _used_ her, again and again throughout their history. Jin was the one to finally free her from that cycle of servitude.

“Brighid…” And who the hell is this woman, with the nerve to speak to her as if she’s an old friend? Mòrag is struggling to catch her breath, her chest heaving and strands of hair matted to her face with sweat. One arm is pinned beneath her own shield. “I know who you are.”

“Don’t say such presumptuous things,” she snarls, pressing her sword down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but just enough to nick her. “Do you think I’d care for such titles and ceremony? None of that means anything to me!”

“The elders of Mor Ardain were fools to try to exploit you. You are _no one’s_ possession.” None of that controlled fury remains, and now Brighid sees a different fire set ablaze in this woman’s gaze. Her cap had fallen off; she can read her face clearly, bearing none of the resentment and cruelty she’d become accustomed to around Torna.

The entire time they fought, she’d never looked at Brighid with anything resembling hatred.

“… Who are you, Mòrag?”

“I would have been your Driver in another lifetime,” she says. The sirens had finally stopped blaring some time ago. Neither of them even noticed. “We would have been partners, you and I.”

“Liar.”

“I speak naught but the truth.”

“What happened to all your bravado? You claimed humans would surpass the need for Blades.”

“That’s right.” Mòrag is entirely unbothered as Brighid presses the sword down just a bit harder. “I’ve earned my station and the respect of my countrymen by my own merits and strength alone. From the day you were stolen, I knew that that was what I must do. I’ve spent those ten years training for the day when we would meet.”

“You didn’t train hard enough.”

“So it would seem.”

Mòrag should hate her with every fiber of her being, because that is the nature of humans and Brighid had slain all those Drivers accompanying her. It would be a fine excuse to drive the sword all the way through her throat, but she finds her aim drifting away from her neck. Across her collar. Down over her heart. So close she could cut through her clothes without grazing her skin.

Jin has the heart of a human beating within him. She’d always believed that’s where all his hatred had come from. No one ever explained it and the quiet moments of raw grief in the bridge of the Monoceros told long, unsaid stories that even Akhos wouldn’t dare try to adapt into one of his stupid screenplays. A little perspective never hurts. She realizes, after meeting this woman, that it isn’t _hatred_ blackening his heart. Not the kind of hatred she thought it was, at least.

This isn’t how a Driver and Blade are supposed to be. Brighid had never felt any strong attachment to Jin, only pity. Obrona adores Akhos, and Cressidus spends all his time with Mikhail, Perdido respects Patroka’s wild strength— even goddamn Sever is more or less content to hang around Malos, reveling in their mutual hunger for violence.

Jin never wanted to awaken Brighid. He did so because… they were acquaintances, once, a long time ago. Or perhaps he picked up her Core Crystal out of pity. They only pity each other. Drivers and Blades aren’t supposed to pity each other.

Mòrag is completely unmoving, simply waiting for her next move. Her gaze shifts past Brighid and her eyes widen.

“Brighid. We’re done here, let’s go.”

Ah. Jin has all the Core Crystals.

He’s watching.

She plunges the sword into Mòrag’s stomach. Her mouth opens in shock, the pain not quite registering yet, clutching at the wound after Brighid pulls the blade out. It was… a reflex. No, a necessity. She’s saving her life, really, because if Jin realizes what sort of seed Mòrag had planted into the back of her mind then he would decapitate Mòrag right there and then without question. No human could recover from having their head removed from their shoulders, but they could at least heal from a stab wound.

Brighid silently prays that she didn’t hit anything particularly vital.

* * *

Only Malos seems to know what Jin plans with all those stolen Core Crystals that he squirrels away into the secure depths of the Monoceros. The rest of their crew either speculate, or don’t care, or are too afraid to actually ask. On occasion, Jin will mutter to himself as if he’d lost his mind (as if he hasn’t already). He says things about _hearing voices_ and _listening to their pleas_ , as he runs his fingers along the cold walls of the ship and shuffles aimlessly down the empty halls.

As the Blade Jin had resonated with, Brighid feels obligated to know his reasoning. At the same time, she gets the feeling her pity for her Driver may escalate into hatred if she ever found out the truth, whatever it may be.

“You killed _The Bladeless!”_ Akhos cries out in astonishment, after Jin has delivered the world’s most condensed version of what went down in that Ardainian transporter. “Brighid, how could you!”

Brighid resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Why do you care?”

“My curiosity cannot be satiated by mere rumors, you know. That woman’s power would have been a spectacle to witness live! Oh… such missed opportunities,” he laments, bringing his hand up to his head for dramatic effect. He sighs. Obrona snickers and Patroka loudly groans in undisguised secondhand embarrassment. “It’s not every day one can battle a human with such strength, no?”

“All humans are the same.” Malos has his feet propped up as he usually does, arms crossed over his chest. “Our job is to take out the trash, remember? You don’t play with trash.”

“But!”

“A long, long time ago, humans were once able to stand on their own feet without Blades.” Jin’s quiet intervention effectively shuts up Akhos. Everyone turns to look at him, attentive, some mildly bewildered by this rare moment when Jin is about to speak at length for more than a few curt words. Even Obrona settles down to perch beside Malos. “They could control the ether in the atmosphere themselves to some extent. Blades were just a conduit to strengthen that power.”

“So it’s hardly any different than how things are today,” Malos says. “Except now humans have regressed even further. They’ve become weaker, and pathetic beyond compare.”

But not Mòrag Ladair.

Brighid has had few personal encounters with humans over the past ten years. Jin is… neither protective, nor controlling, but his silent warnings and the bottomless grief he shoulders had always been enough to deter her own burgeoning curiosities and questions. He made it clear that he believed that someone like Brighid should not be shackled by the chains of a human empire. But by that same principle, he never orders her to follow Torna’s dogma. She follows because she chooses too, but also because she knows nothing else.

The others are the same. They all have their reasons for hiding out of society’s eye, but Jin is the commonality they all have. A fading sun with its own planets drawn into its orbit, closer and closer to the radius of its death throes. Without him, there would be no Torna, and no hope for a spectacular death at the top of the World Tree.

Unlike him, Brighid has no intention of dying.

She stands up. “I’m going to Alba Cavanich. Alone.”

“— _Huh?_ ”

“Are you serious.”

“Odd, I didn’t hear anything about another shipment of Core Crystals…”

“Alright.”

Mòrag said she belongs to no one. She said she would have resonated with Brighid, had her Core Crystal not been taken from Mor Ardain. What else does she have to say? Her overwhelming strength was…

“Don’t be an idiot, Brighid,” Malos says, smiling with the patience of someone dealing with an unruly child. His attitude makes her sick at the best of times. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. That woman got into your head, didn’t she?”

“Can’t I say the same of all of you?” she shoots back, resting one hand on her hip. “I don’t belong to the Ardainian Empire, but that also means I don’t belong to Torna. I’m capable of making my own decisions for myself, _thanks._ ”

That smile fades, and now Malos is beginning to show the signs of irritation. His fists curl on the table and he swings his legs to the floor, shoulders hunched and that glare practically daring Brighid to say _one more thing_ , see what happens, he’s strong enough to remind her of the unsaid hierarchy of their organization. But then Jin lifts his head, his tone even and unbothered.

“Do what you want. It’s not within my rights to stop you.”

For the first time, Brighid feels a sense of gratitude toward him.

“Wait— you’re seriously leaving?!” Patroka, always the first to try to buddy up with Brighid (no matter how much Brighid expresses her disdain and annoyance), leaps to her feet. Her head whips back and forth between Jin and Malos, disbelief twisting her frown. “Hey, one of you say something! You can’t just let Brighid _leave!_ ”

Malos scoffs. He leans back in his seat, looking away. “If Jin says it’s fine, then it’s fine. Not my problem.”

“A shocking plot twist,” Akhos mutters. “Interesting developments, to say the least.”

Brighid is already walking away. “Send Nia and Mikhail my regards.”

“ _Jin!_ ”

“… She’ll come back,” is all he says, once Brighid had left the room. His uncertainty is unmistakeable, but no one has the compulsion to go after her.

* * *

The wound aches, raw and fresh. A doctor had stitched it up and slathered some balms onto it and wrapped it all up with gauze and bandages, then patted Mòrag on the shoulder and warned her to stay out of the field for a few days. At the very least.

She’d always been a restless sort of person, unable to sit still very long without fidgeting or finding some sort of distraction for her hands. Her tutors and mentors called her insatiable, never unruly. Such a slight form couldn’t contain all her energy and potential, and so she channeled it into perfecting the arts of war.

Now, confined to her chambers with a prescription for rest and recuperation, she finds herself with nothing to do but swing a dull training sword at imaginary enemies, gritting her teeth at the sharp pain in her gut and the burning aches left in her muscles from wielding the charged blade. Everything hurts, not only the stab wound. Her pride, most of all, must hurt the most.

The doctor had also warned her, that if she continued using too much of the ether phials like that…

No, limits are meant to be broken. She’ll surpass the most powerful Blades in Alrest herself, to show the world that human tenacity could reach heights that not even the Architect had intended for them to reach. It could cost her an arm or two and maybe her legs at that, but what does it matter?

A sharp tap at the glass balcony doors shatters her concentration. Mòrag drops the sword and reflexively reaches for the dagger she always keeps at her hip, knowing full well who her visitor must be. Not just anyone could get past all the guards and turrets of the palace then make their way to her terrace undetected. Not just anyone could best her in battle like _she_ did, either.

Brighid had concealed the burning light of her flames with a heavy cloak. Without even hesitating, Mòrag pulls the doors open and stands only two paces across from her, close enough that she could easily finish the job right now if she wanted to. A warm wind blows into her room, stirring dust around their feet.

They stare at each other. Mòrag is in her underclothes, slightly out of breath and skin damp with sweat from her exercises. For some reason, she gets the feeling Brighid is sizing her up again just as she did back on the ship— but of course. Mòrag must strike a comically vulnerable figure like this, without the uniform or armor. Her charged blade rests against a wall at the far side of the room, out of reach. Her wound sings with the memory of that horrible pain of being stabbed.

This is a golden opportunity, which Brighid has no intention of seizing.

“… Can we talk, Mòrag?” Brighid asks, breaking the silence. A burning hand extends out from beneath the cloak. A peace offering.

Mòrag nods. She clasps their palms together, and steps aside to allow Brighid to enter her room.

**Author's Note:**

> then they make out and have sex on morag's bed the end


End file.
